


Close Shave

by ruxian



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Banter, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Couch Cuddles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Movie Night, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Protective Sam Wilson, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Sleepy Cuddles, Touch-Starved, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 20:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20570384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruxian/pseuds/ruxian
Summary: He’s been debating on cutting his hair for a long time, and finally decided to take the plunge. While he admittedly likes the way it looks more than he thought he would, it’s still a bit too reminiscent of his days as a play-thing for HYDRA to not be at least a little tempted to chop it off. And, well, it’s only hair; if he hates it short, it’ll grow back.Still, Bucky hesitates.





	Close Shave

**Author's Note:**

> i’m having a Bad Time rn so i’m taking it out on bucky (sorry bud) but at least he has a sam where as i do not
> 
> while i’m an advocate for long haired buck, i’ve seen way too many awesome pieces of art to not be at least a little inspired to write something like this!
> 
> please be warned, there is a panic attack scene in the beginning. reader discretion is advised.

The electric shaver feels heavy in his hands. 

He hasn’t used one himself before, instead opting to use a simpler (and cheaper) straight razor while on the run to keep his face and body somewhat neat. But, this way would be the quickest to get through the thick hair on his head. 

He’s been debating on cutting his hair for a long time, and finally decided to take the plunge. While he admittedly likes the way it looks more than he thought he would, it’s still a bit too reminiscent of his days as a play-thing for HYDRA to not be at least a little tempted to chop it off. And, well, it’s only hair; if he hates it short, it’ll grow back. 

Still, Bucky hesitates. 

It’s stupid, he thinks, that a simple electric shaver is enough to make his pulse skyrocket, after all he’s been through, but it does. He’s not even sure why, but something about the metal device in his hand is terrifying. 

But it needs to be done. 

Bracing himself, he takes a deep breath and clicks the shaver on. 

Oh. 

That’s why. 

The sound is–

Fuck. 

_Fuck_.

Bucky stands there, paralyzed as the shaver buzzes away in his hand, a loud and overbearing and oh so familiar sound, just like–

Just like–

He’s not breathing, he notes dimly, eyes wide and glued to the shaver. He can’t breathe. He can’t move. If he moves they’ll just strap him down, trap him in the– 

In the–

Logically, he knows he isn’t tasting rubber. Logically, he knows the voltage from the shaver wouldn’t transfer through his scalp and fry his brain. Again. Logically, he knows he can move his arms, knows that they aren’t clamped down under heavy metal cuffs, that his muscles aren’t seizing from hundreds of thousands of volts of electricity. Logically, he knows that the circuits and wires in his left arm aren’t rapid-firing into his nervous system and spine. 

Logically, he knows he should turn the shaver off. 

He drops it. 

It buzzes, loudly clattering against and probably chipping the porcelain of the sink as it jumps around the bowl, metal edges knocking against the drain. He sucks in a breath, another, another.

Another another another another–

His lungs are burning, overfilled with Oxygen, but he can’t stop, can’t stop can’t stop because he’s _there_, he’s _there_ and he’s going to forget. He’s going to forget again, he doesn’t want to forget again, he can’t, he can’t _he can’t_–

The buzzing is so _loud_–

His skull aches, right down to the roots of his teeth, anticipating it, waiting for the crack of electricity, the burns that follow it and hurt for hours, _days_, after, and he can’t– 

He can’t–

Distantly, he hears someone call for him, but it’s muffled by the goddamn _buzzing_, by the screams in his head that it’s a _handler_, that they’ve got him again, and it’s all just–

All just–

“Buck? You alright in there man? What’s that noise?”

The buzzing won’t _fucking stop_–

He presses himself into the corner of the shower, arms up in front of himself, fists tight. He’ll fight. _Assets don’t fight back_. He will. He _won’t_ let them turn him into their _asset_, a _fucking toy_ again, refuses, he won’t, he won’t he won’t he won’t–

He can’t–

“I’m coming in; you better not be jacking off.” 

He braces– can’t focus, has to focus, has to–

The door opens, and–

“What the–” 

The buzzing stops. 

_The buzzing stops_.

He can’t relax, can’t hear much of anything over his own panicked breathing, because it could be a trick, they’ve tricked him before, but the buzzing _stopped_, it _stopped_ and–

“Bucky, can you hear me?” That’s Sam. Sam is here. “Buck, look at me. I need you to calm down, man–you’re gonna pass out.”

Bucky. His name is Bucky. They don’t call him Bucky.

Sam–

“Right here. I’m right here, can you breathe with me?” 

Bucky opens his eyes. When did he close them? He can’t close them, he has to pay attention, _pay attention, they’ll_–

They’ll–

“Breathe for me, just like this, c’mon. Focus on me.”

Focus. Bucky can focus, he can focus on Sam. Sam–

Sam is blurry. Why is Sam blurry? Sam–

“I’m right here, Buck. Can you breathe with me?”

He tracks Sam’s hand, watches it as Sam mimics air going into his lungs. 

Bucky feels nauseous, feels burning bile in his throat, one too big exhale away from throwing up–his ribs ache from heaving in too much too fast. But he forces himself to follow Sam’s instructions. 

Bucky breathes. 

“Good, keep that up, you’re doing good,” Sam praises, guiding him through another breath cycle. 

Bucky breathes. 

Bucky _breathes_.

He feels exhausted, suddenly, skin cold and clammy and face wet. He lets himself slip down the wall, thighs crumbling beneath him as he practically sinks into the tile. He feels a bit like Bambi: all wobbly and weak and jelly-legged. His arm suddenly feels much heavier than it actually is. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sam sit down across from him at the other end of the shower, legs folded up so they both fit on the floor. They’re not exactly small and the shower isn’t exactly big. 

Bucky knocks his head against the tile and tries not to gag. Or cry. 

Either or. 

Bucky breathes. 

He breathes for a long time. 

Sam doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to fill the silence with anything as he lets Bucky compose himself. He’s grateful. 

Eventually, he wipes his face, sighs, and actually looks at Sam. 

He’s watching him patiently, worriedly, but has made no move to touch him or approach him beyond that. Sam’s actually made sure no part of him is touching him, as cramped as they are. Some part of Bucky wishes he was. 

Sam doesn’t look scared, though. Just worried.

“Sorry,” he croaks, barely audible in the small room. “Did I hurt you?”

“Didn’t even touch me,” Sam assures. Thank God. “Wanna tell me what that was about?” 

Bucky swallows. His throat clicks. “I–”

He has to look away from Sam, instead focusing on a line of grout. There’s a bit of mold on it. 

“It… It sounded like the chair,” he rasps quietly, wringing his fingers together harshly. 

He pulls his legs up close to his body, hugging them tight. Maybe for comfort. His left arm whirs quietly along with his distress. 

He doesn’t need to explain; Sam’s read his file. 

“God, it’s so fucking stupid,” he laughs wetly, shaking his head. His hair, his _stupid fucking hair_, is damp with sweat. “I just wanted to cut my hair.”

“It’s not stupid, Buck.”

“Yes it is,” he scoffs, ignoring the way Sam frowns. “I’m supposed to be better.” The words are quiet, strained. His throat hurts. 

“You are.”

“Does this look like ‘_better_’ to you?” 

“Yes.”

Bucky snaps his head up to look incredulously at Sam, who just stares calmly back. 

“You _are_ better, man. This isn’t some sort of, set-back, or whatever. It’s a part of healing.”

“_Please_, do _not_ start spewing your therapist crap at me right now,” he snaps. 

He knows it’s harsh. Knows it’s unfair to take out his hurt on Sam, especially when he’s just trying to help. But he’s just so _tired_. 

Sam just raises an eyebrow at him. “First of all, I’m not actually a therapist, and I certainly ain’t yours. Second of all, you’re gonna have to try harder than that to scare me off, man.” 

His chest deflates just a bit, shaking his head and biting his lip as he finds that piece of grout again. He’ll clean it later. 

“I thought…” he starts, taking another deep breath before continuing. A drop of sweat trails down his nose. “I thought that after the… the words were gone, that I would be…”

“What? 100% better?” Sam asks, and Bucky can barely keep himself from nodding. “I hate to break it to you, but that’s not how recovery works, man. You’re gonna have days like these, where even the most mundane things set you off. This is a pretty clear trigger that you can avoid, so that’s a good thing. It sucks you found out this way, yeah, but at least we know that this is something you can’t deal with, and that’s fine. That’s _fine_, Buck.”

“It’s so dumb,” he argues back. “What normal person has a panic attack over an _electric shaver_?”

“No offense, but you’re not exactly the pinnacle of ‘normal’,” Sam teases. Bucky glares back. 

“Thanks, Sam; I feel so much better.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Do you know how many people in my groups talked about having a panic attack because they saw a plastic bag on the road? Because a balloon popped at their kid’s birthday party? Triggers aren’t always big bad things, man. Sometimes it’s the small stuff.”

Bucky still isn’t exactly convinced, but appreciates the effort nonetheless. 

He finds himself staring at Sam’s knees for a minute, wishing they were actually touching his, wishing that he could feel more than just the vague idea of Sam’s body heat, wishing–

“I had an anxiety attack last week.”

His head snaps up, eyes wide as he looks at Sam. 

He has an honest expression on his face, meeting Bucky’s stare dead on in a silent challenge. Bucky licks his lips and frowns. 

“You–”

“Saw something on my run that took me straight back to Afghanistan,” Sam explains, shrugging his shoulders. “Don’t even remember what it was. Some little old lady came and sat with me while I lost my mind on a park bench. She actually gave me a peppermint!” Sam laughs like it wasn’t a big deal, like it was a totally normal occurrence to have an anxiety attack on a park bench and have old ladies give you candy to make you feel better. 

It’s not. It’s not at all. But–

“Look, man: you’ve been through some shit. Some serious shit that I didn’t even know one person could survive, let alone be doing as well as you are.” Bucky frowns, but doesn’t interrupt. “These things are gonna happen. You can’t let them rule your life, but you gotta accept that they’re gonna happen. How you wanna handle them is up to you.” Sam adjusts, accidentally brushing his knee against Bucky’s shin, and Bucky has to sit there and pretend like it’s fine. Like he doesn’t want that touch to stay. “You wanna deal with it by sitting in the shower for a while? That’s cool. As long as you don’t spend all day in here. I don’t think that’s good for your lungs, man; there’s mold everywhere.”

Bucky manages a small laugh. “It’s your shower, pal.”

“It’s _our_ shower; not my fault SHIELD is stingy as hell with their apartments and gave us one with only one shower,” Sam gripes lightheartedly. “I mean, who the hell gives two grown men an apartment with only one shower? Makes no damn sense.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Sam grins a little, seemingly pleased he got him to relax more. 

“Alright, tell you what,” Sam starts, “you go ahead and chill out for a few minutes, I’m gonna go get rid of that shaver thing and set up a movie, okay?”

Bucky hesitates. “You don’t have to get rid of it–”

“Yes I do,” Sam says firmly, and Bucky clicks his jaw shut. 

“Okay.”

“Great, cool. Anyone shown you Kill Bill yet?”

Bucky blinks. “Isn’t that supposed to be really violent?” 

“Incredibly,” Sam grins, showing all his teeth. “You’ll love it.”

Bucky’s not entirely convinced, but Sam seems excited about showing it to him, so he agrees. It’s worth it to see the smile on Sam’s face when he gets up. 

“Alright, that’s enough sappy shit for the day,” Sam decides, extending a hand to help him up off the shower floor. “You good?”

Bucky pauses for a moment, assessing, and nods. The unbearable coil of anxiety doesn’t feel so heavy in his chest anymore, his hands feel less fluttery, and all of his senses have come back to him now. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

Sam nods, then walks over to the sink and plucks the shaver from it, quickly hiding it from his view as he leaves the bathroom. It brings him more peace than he’d care to admit. 

“I’m gonna order pizza,” Sam calls from the hallway. “You want anything in particular?”

“You better not get that damn pizza with pineapple, Wilson!” he shouts back, leaning over the sink. 

“Your taste buds just haven’t evolved from the 40’s yet!”

“Warm pineapple and cheese do _not_ go together; it’s disgusting–_you’re_ disgusting!”

“Yeah, see if I order that garlic bread you like now, Barnes!” 

Bucky laughs, not worried about Sam getting him his garlic bread. Sam always gets him his garlic bread. 

“Just pepperoni is fine, man.”

“Got it!”

Pizza order put away, Bucky gathers up his courage in a neat little pile and forces himself to look up in the mirror. 

Well, he decides, it could be worse. 

His eyes are red-rimmed and bit puffy, his face looks a bit blotchy, and his cheeks are still a bit wet, but overall, not so bad. He could go outside and only get stared at a little bit. He’s definitely looked worse. 

Sighing, Bucky grabs his washcloth and cleans his face, then combs back his hair so it doesn’t look like such a mess. It makes him look mildly like a supervillain, he thinks, but it’ll have to do. 

When he’s done, there are a few stray drops of water darkening his grey henley, but he looks less miserable than he did a few minutes ago. Bucky blows air out of his nose harshly for a moment, running his fingers through his hair a few times. Trying a new look was definitely not worth the trouble it caused, he decides, even if he still wants to try it a little bit. 

Shaking his head, he takes a deep breath and steps back out into the living room to find Sam tossing a bunch of pillows and a quilt onto their tiny couch. 

“The hell are you doing?” he asks, tilting his head in confusion. Sam launches a pillow at him and only decades of practice keep it from hitting him in the nose. 

“Movie marathons need to be comfy.” Sam shrugs as if it’s obvious. 

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize we were having one.”

Sam snorts. “Of course we are; you can’t just watch Kill Bill by itself, man! You gotta watch Kill Bill Vol. 2 afterwards, and then something lighthearted to unwind.” 

Bucky chucks the pillow back at Sam’s head. 

Sam bats it down onto the couch, unbothered. “Pizza should be here in half an hour, wanna wait?”

“No,” he says, flopping down on the mountain of pillows and ignoring Sam’s squawk of protest. 

Sam, undeterred, turns off the lights and grabs the remote, then flops down next to him and throws a leg over his lap. Bucky’s breath hitches at the contact. 

“Sorry,” Sam says softly when he notices how still he’s gone, and goes to move his leg. 

Before he can move an inch, Bucky shoots out his hand and grabs Sam’s calf to stop him, metal thumb digging into the muscle just a bit. 

“S’fine,” he whispers, catching Sam’s gaze from under his lashes. 

He feels shy all of a sudden, like he shouldn’t have been so bold, so obvious, but Sam just nods after a moment of staring and sinks his weight back into Bucky. 

“Okay,” Sam agrees, quiet, brows pinching together in consideration. 

Bucky clears his throat and looks away. “You gonna play the movie?” 

“Yeah.” Sam sounds mildly confused, but the movie starts playing a few moments later, so Bucky forces himself to focus on that. 

He hasn’t moved his hand from Sam’s leg. 

. . .

Sam did get that damn Hawaiian pizza. It’s disgusting. 

“You’re disgusting,” he tells him, grimacing as Sam takes a big bite of the awful concoction that is somehow called food. 

“You love me,” Sam says around a mouthful pineapple. 

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that, so he takes a bite of garlic bread instead. 

. . .

Sam was right: he loves Kill Bill. 

. . .

He finds himself exhausted halfway through Volume Two, though, apparently worn out after his earlier hysterics. 

Slowly, he tips over as sleep drags his body down, until his head knocks onto Sam’s shoulder. It blinks him awake enough to realize what he just did, but is barely able to move to sit back up before an arm wraps around him and keeps him there. 

“S’fine, Buck,” Sam whispers, clicking the volume down on the TV, “go to sleep.”

Some small, distant, tortured part of his brain screams at him to move, to wake up and stop being so openly vulnerable, but a much, much larger part just feels comfortable and safe enough to do as Sam says.

And Bucky does just that. 

. . .

The next time he wakes, it’s to a particularly loud explosion from the TV.

“Sorry, it’s okay,” Sam whispers from above him, petting his flesh and blood arm to soothe him back to sleep. Somehow, he’s migrated down to Sam’s lap. “Go back to sleep.” 

Bucky hums quietly and lets himself sink back down into unconsciousness, comforted by the gentle motion of Sam’s hand and the warmth of his thigh against his cheek. 

. . .

They don’t talk about their movie night, but Bucky notices that Sam touches him more often. A gentle slap on the shoulder here, a brush along his back in the kitchen there. 

It’s… Nice. 

Still, he can’t help but blink in surprise when Sam claps him on the back as he nurses a mug of tea a week later, and leaves his hand there. 

“Do you still wanna cut your hair?” Sam asks casually. 

“Uh,” he answers eloquently, “yes? Why?”

“Stay here,” Sam says with a grin, darting off back towards his room before Bucky can even reply. 

“O… kay?” 

Sam comes back a minute later, carrying a black case in one hand and hauling one of the kitchen stools along with him in the other. 

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Should I be concerned?”

Ignoring him for the moment, Sam drags the stool into the middle of their living room, dropping the case on the coffee table. Sam comes back into the kitchen and grabs Bucky’s arm then, dragging him into the living room and gesturing for him to sit on the stool. 

Bucky does, confused as Sam darts away again, this time coming back with some kind of black sheet in his hand. 

“My uncle is a barber,” Sam explains, draping the sheet around Bucky. With one hand, he holds the sheet in place, and with the other he opens the case and grabs some kind of clip from it. “Well, he was; he’s retired now, _but_, I always worked in his shop during the summer when I was a kid.”

Clipping the sheet in place, Sam pulls the case close enough to let Bucky get a look. There are different kinds of scissors, in all sorts of weird shapes and sizes, along with more clips, a few combs, and a few jars of god-knows-what. 

“Actually wanted to work there full-time for a while, before I joined the military. I did for a bit in between deployments; I was actually pretty good, you know? Turns out he still had my kit!”

“You’re gonna cut my hair?” Bucky asks, bewildered.

“Unless you changed your mind, yeah.”

“No,” he assures, maybe a bit too fast, but Sam just smiles brightly at him. He has to force down a blush. “You can cut it.” For some reason, he knows he can trust Sam with this task. 

“Know what you want?” 

“Uh, just, you know,” Bucky gestures vaguely at his head. “Like…”

“Like it used to be?” Sam asks, in a gentle tone when he can’t find the words himself. 

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Gently, softly, Sam combs his fingers through Bucky’s hair, neatly undoing any tangles he comes across. Bucky doesn’t think that Sam needs to do it for as long as he does, but he’s certainly not going to complain. The bit of tension in his shoulders quickly starts to melt away with every brush of Sam’s fingers. 

Sam gets to work when he deems his hair tangle free, and Bucky lets himself relax to the sound of the scissors and Sam’s humming. The humming quickly turns into off-key singing, forcing Bucky to keep still as he tries not to laugh. 

“Hey, man, don’t laugh at Prince. That’s a crime in like, five countries,” Sam scolds when he catches him laughing. 

“I’m pretty sure your _singing_ is a crime in like five countries.”

“You do realize I could make you bald if I wanted to, right?” Sam warns, though he doesn’t sound very serious. Bucky mimes zipping his lips shut anyway. 

Sam continues to sing off-key as he works on Bucky’s hair, occasionally getting louder and more off-key in a probable attempt to annoy him. Mostly, Bucky finds it distressingly endearing. 

Chunks of his hair fall to the hardwood floor below as Sam snips away, circling the stool and getting in his personal space. He can’t say he minds. 

It is a bit strange to feel blades so close to his skin, and not feel nervous or flighty. He feels a bit nervous at the sight of his hair on the floor, though, at how long the strands are, but mostly he feels a timid excitement at how it’s going to look. 

“I could probably sell this on eBay,” Sam muses, twirling a small chunk in his fingers before dropping it to the floor. “Might get rich. What do you think: a thousand a strand for the Winter Soldier’s hair? Two?”

“_Sam_.” 

“What?” Sam asks wide-eyed, snipping away at his head. “I’m right!”

“Do not sell my hair on eBay.” 

Sam sighs dramatically. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re no fun, at all? Absolutely zero fun?”

“You. Yesterday. Four times.” 

“And yet you’re still so boring.” 

“You go be tortured by Nazis for seventy years and see how fun _you_ are after.” 

Sam rolls his eyes, thankfully not taking him seriously. “Always so dramatic,” he mutters, trimming one last bit in front of his face before putting the scissors down. 

Bucky squirms a bit in anticipation, but Sam just holds up a hand and grabs one of the jars from his case. It has a warm, almost sweet scent wafting from it when Sam opens it, only getting stronger when he takes a glob in his fingers and rubs them together. 

“Look at me,” Sam orders, and it’s easy to oblige. Sam isn’t hard to look at. 

“Tall order,” he mutters teasingly in an attempt to distract from the blush undoubtedly crawling up his face. 

Considering the dry look Sam shoots him, he isn’t sure it worked. 

Still, Bucky does as Sam asks, even as he fights to keep his eyes open when Sam cards his fingers through his new hair. It feels different, but oddly familiar, so he focuses on staring at Sam’s face to avoid thinking about it too much. It’s a nice face. A very nice face.

(Bucky’s totally screwed.)

It doesn’t take long for Sam to style his hair to his liking, apparently, just taking a moment to run a comb through it a few times before he removes the sheet and steps back, admiring his work. 

Sam smiles smugly, nodding. “Still got it.”

That thrum of nerves comes back, but in a good way: floating around like butterflies in his ribs instead of a snake coiled around his lungs. 

“Got a mirror?” he asks, ignoring how soft his voice comes out. 

Sam turns and grabs one from his case, holding it out to him with the plastic backing facing him. It feels heavy in his hand, cold and foreign, so he looks up at Sam for a bit of courage. 

“Go ahead, man,” Sam encourages, nodding at the mirror. 

Bucky takes a deep breath, and flips the mirror. 

He’ll deny the little gasp that leaves him for the rest of his life. Sam… Sam actually did a fantastic job. His hair looks just like it did during the war, if not styled in a way that’s a bit more modern. It makes him feel less haunted, less like he needs to hide and lurk in the shadows.

His eyes feel wet. 

Tentatively, he reaches up his right hand, pausing before he actually touches to look at Sam for confirmation that he could without messing up his hard work. Sam nods him on, so carefully, gently, Bucky runs his fingers through it. The nostalgia from the action hits him full force, sienna memories so strong he actually has to put his hand back down and breathe. 

“So,” Sam says, voice soft, “what do you think?”

“I–” Bucky has to swallow, throat tight. He flicks his eyes from Sam, to the mirror, and back again. “I like it.”

The smile Sam gives him is brighter and better than the sun, he thinks. 

Just this once, Bucky decides to take a chance he never thought he would. 

Carefully placing the mirror down on the coffee table, he stands and makes his way over to Sam. Bucky makes sure he’s gentle when he pulls Sam in for a hug, left arm loose and right arm firm around his waist. He can’t say how relieved he is when Sam hugs him back, strong and steady. 

“Thank you, Sam,” he whispers, eyes closed and fingers curled in the soft fabric of Sam’s shirt. 

Sam’s thumb rubs a circle in his back. “Anytime man. Seriously, anytime.”

When they pull apart, Sam smiles at him, looking him over. Bucky hopes the way his gaze lingers on his lips for a second too long isn’t just his imagination, but doesn’t dare say a word. 

“You look good, Buck. Real good.”

“Thanks to you,” he says, earnest. 

Sam laughs. “I could get used to you singing my praises.”

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late.” Sam’s grinning at him, and Bucky groans.

“You’re going to be insufferable now, aren’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Fantastic.”

. . .

The next time Bucky falls asleep on Sam’s shoulder, it isn’t an accident. 

Neither is the kiss Sam places on the top of his head. 

He would know; his new haircut lets him feel it clearly.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! are you team bucky or team sam in the pineapple on pizza debate? i’m solidly team bucky. y’all are nasty.
> 
> come yell at me about these two idiots on tumblr! @rux-ian


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